The small boy rushed over to Isobel waving a minute brown trout, all of ten centimetres long, by the tail. ‘I catched it all by myself,’ he told her excitedly, and then added modestly: ‘. . . well almost.’

‘How wonderful, darling!’ Isobel sounded suitably impressed. ‘Shall we ask Sheena to cook it for your tea?’

The small boy nodded enthusiastically, and then overcome to be the focus of so many people’s attention, placed his catch carefully on the shortbread plate, climbed on to Isobel’s knee and stuck his fishy thumb in his mouth.

Louisa thought he was the most sensationally good-looking little boy she had ever seen and was just about to say to Isobel ‘So this is Lorna’s son?’ when she was struck by something which froze the words in her mouth and left her gaping like a fish herself. At this moment Bunty, lured by the presence of a child like a falcon to a day-old chick, swooped from the other side of the room and crouched by Isobel’s chair, demanding to be told the full story of Rory’s battle with Leviathan. It was easy to see why she had devoted her life to children because in no time at all she had him telling her the whole saga, from the delicious digging up of wriggly worms for bait to the dangling of the rod over the pool in the burn, the ginormous tug on the line, the crucial skill of the strike and finally the landing of the monster. Isobel couldn’t help thinking that Bunty, dealing with an actual child, was much more attractive than Bunty trying to treat everyone she met as if they were one, and thought perhaps she should revise her opinion of her.

‘Well you are a clever boy,’ said Bunty admiringly, ‘and I’m sure it won’t be the only fish you and Daddy catch together either!’ She beamed happily at the other spectators. ‘Easy to see who’s a real daddy’s boy, isn’t it?’ she enquired, addressing the room at large, and then, turning to Isobel, she added, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a father and son more alike in all my years of teaching – it’s almost uncanny. You must be very proud of them both.’

Isobel froze. Across the room she and Giles held each other’s gaze as though a magnet connected them and there was one of those silences, in reality mere seconds, that to a few people in the room seemed to go on and on, making a nonsense of the usual measure of time. Isobel had gone very white. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice unnaturally bright and clear. ‘I am very proud of them, but Rory isn’t actually our son. He’s my nephew.’